In the air this morning
a fog lingered
a few feet above the ground.

Droplets congregated
on the window
over the deck.

The mountain lion
blended into the wildflowers
and fog—or mist.

I might have missed it
if not for the goat
it carried through the yard.

At the next count,
my neighbor will recognize
the vacancy in his pasture.

Unless I inform him
that the mountain lion
took his goat

and ate it behind my toolshed
where the tarp extends past
two cords of firewood.

Though I knew,
once my neighbor knew,
he would lay in wait

and some near morning
I would hear the report
of his rifle.

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copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney